


Rabbit Heart

by shortcircuitify



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Varric Tethras is a Good Friend, Varric Tethras' Nicknames
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:52:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 7,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9343646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortcircuitify/pseuds/shortcircuitify
Summary: AU: Orana is travelling with Varric after the disaster of Kirkwall, and when the Temple of Sacred Ashes comes tumbling down, she is left with a mark on her hand and a duty that she is uncertain she will be able to fulfill.Short chapters, filled with lots of love.





	1. Prologue

“Varric?”

He sighed, Bianca held tightly in his hands. Solas panted lightly beside him, brows furrowed in concentration against the waves of demons spilling from the Fade - or maybe it was because Orana screamed every time one came too close to her.

“Yes, Orana?” Aim, draw, fire. Another demon down. He heard Orana whimper beside him.

“I’m scared, Varric,” she whispered, her voice laced with icy fear, “What’s going on?”

Solas sent a shockwave above their heads, causing her to hunch over, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. He could practically feel the Seeker’s frown from behind him, the _tsk_ forming on her lips. Cold sweat beaded against his neck, the falling snow (or were they ashes?) making Haven look like a distant dream.

 _You really thought that she was a threat?_ Varric wanted to turn and say, to smile and cock his eyebrow at the agitated woman, _That you needed to chain her up and leave her in a jail cell?_

Damn, could he use a drink.

But there was no time now. Maybe later.

“Where do you want me to begin?” He quipped, trying to keep his own voice steady against the rising panic in his throat.

He could handle demons, the Fade. Hell, after the shit that was Kirkwall, Varric was certain he would be able to handle anything Andraste threw his way. But Orana? Now Orana, he wasn’t so sure about.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, looking down at the pulsing green light in her palm, the way it vibrated with an energy not her own.

Its vibrancy reflected in her eyes, until she was certain she could see her own reflection in her palm. The green was ugly, unlike the flowers she and Merrill would pick in the spring around Sundermount. It looked like the green of sickness, when Hawke would come home late and regurgitate his dinner on the carpet. But worse.

She wasn’t quite sure she could breath, panic settling like fire across her veins, darkness seeping into the corners of her vision. All she could remember was the Temple – its foreign halls and confusing architecture. She was looking for Varric, separated from him for just a moment, but she went into the wrong room and…

A hand wrapped around her wrist, fiery in how cold it was, and she almost yelped, before seeing the cool, distant eyes of Solas measuring her. She bit her lip, tears pricking the corners of her eyes if only to steady herself for a moment.

“There is no _time_ ,” he hissed, and she felt ugly in her inaction, despite her knees collapsing upon themselves as the mage pulled her hand up to the heavens, an energy from within herself pushing and breaking against her bones to seal the Breach over the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

She cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a prompt, but I can't seem to remember from where!! But I definitely couldn't pass it up.
> 
> Please let me know what you think! I wasn't sure how to frame the first chapter, but I thought this would do before getting into the nitty gritty of Orana being Inquisitor :)


	2. Chapter 2

Varric could see the sweat already creasing her brow, was pretty sure he could see the pounding of her heart against the thin skin of her chest. She kept fidgeting with her hands, rolling the hem of her shirt over and over again as they walked though the droves of people surrounding her, their whispered words making Orana flinch. _Herald, savior, breach,_ all whispered so quietly that together, the words meshed in a cacophony that even made _his_ skin crawl.

He gently pulled her hands apart, holding her clammy palm in his hand, soothing the racing pulse against her wrist.

“You’re alright, kid,” he shot her a crooked grin, one that had always calmed Merrill, when the demons were too loud in her ears.

“Thank you for being here,” Orana whispered, her voice echoing off the cool stone walls of the Chantry.

But her eyes were still darting, unfocused, like a wild halla. The voices of the Grand Chancellor and the Seeker could be heard from across the hall, their voices competing for dominance even in the sacred home of Andraste.

“The Seeker will yell at me again,” it was a statement; an improvement – much better than the mindless, numb haze she had been in for the past few days, her eyes wide open and unseeing as her mind wandered Maker-knows-where.

“She yells at everyone,” Varric scoffed, nudging her in the side.

Orana blinked, scuffed her boot against the stone floor. Stone everything.

“Even you?” she whispered, uncertain, and Varric let out a sharp laugh.

“She yells at me the most, I think.”

Orana let out a soft laugh as well, and Varric let go out of her hand, giving her a soft pat on the back.

“I’m right behind you.”

Orana sighed, her body still shaking, tremors of the mysterious mark on her hand leaving her breathless, her body compensating for the fear and anxiety still coursing through her. He would make sure to get her right back to bed after this meeting, maybe even with some tea, or else he was sure Broody would skin him alive.

“Who knows, maybe they’ll have some answers to that glowing thing on your hand?” He tried, and when she took a step forward, the shouting only growing louder by the minute, he released the tension in his shoulders.

Orana took a deep breath, and took a step forward. The first of many.


	3. Chapter 3

She wriggled her toes in the snow-covered dirt, the clashing of steel and cracking of wood filling her ears. The snow was so much colder here than in Kirkwall, and she most definitely never saw any in Tevinter.

Cullen cleared his throat and she turned her attention back to him, her eyes wandering every which way, the falling snow making the tips of her ears cold.

“Sorry.”

He shrugged half-heartedly, “That’s alright. So how about we try a – uh, sword,” he decided, pulling the weapon off the makeshift weapon rack.

She cringed when she saw the size of it, no doubt it would be heavy in her hand. But that was the least of her problems. And did it have to be so sharp? Cullen presented the hilt of it to her, but she hesitated, and was only stopped from turning around and running to her room by Varric’s short snort.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea, Curly.”

Cullen sighed, “It wasn’t my idea.”

“Do you have anything less pointy?” She asked.

“I’d prefer it if she didn’t have any weapon near her in general,” Orana nodded her approval, looking at the Commander with large, open eyes.

“Try telling that to the Seeker.”

Orana sighed. _Herald of Andraste._ She had been to the sermons at the Chantry with Lady Leandra, and she was certain that she was no Herald. Andraste was a fighter, and leader – and, well…

“Okay, well, how about something less pointy, nothing sharp in general would be ideal, mmh,” Varric tapped his finger against his chin, looking over the training equipment with a keen eye, “How about this?”

Cullen raised the stick, too tall for Varric to grasp on his own. A simple piece of treated wood, stained a dark color, blunt on both edges. It looked no fancier than a walking cane.

“…This?” Cullen asked.

“It’s perfect! Easy to wield, long to keep enemies away, what do you think, Mousy?”

She felt the blood fill her mouth where she bit her lip. It reminded her of the staff that Solas had used, when they were fighting to the breach. She had flinched every time he arched it through the sky, which was admittedly very pretty, and she felt bad every time because she was certain he didn’t _mean_ to hit her, and he never _did_ , but it was only natural for her now to take a step back from the imposing staff, almost as tall as her shoulders. It just – it looked so very s _imilar_ to when _–_

Cullen saw the distress in her eyes, the look all too familiar to him by now, soldiers and Templars decaying before his eyes, and now this young girl, and so he put the staff down, hesitated, and put his hand stiffly on her shoulder.

“I think that’s enough for today. We can start again tomorrow?”

She really didn’t want to, torn between her guilt to continue training now and her need to breath, but she looked at Cullen, the way his brows were furrowed in worry. It was the same look Isabela gave Hawke, after everything was over. It was the same look her Papa used to give her when she was little and feeling sick, her coughs wracking her small chest. She nodded her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be trying to post every day since the chapters are so small. I also hope you guys like the format, these small moments between all of the huge moments that happen in Inquisition, seeing all of the characters grow in their all small ways, it is definitely fun to write :)
> 
> Also Mousy! I couldn't think of a nickname Varric would use for Orana, but I thought Mousy might be appropriate so I went with it!


	4. Chapter 4

Solas watched the mark carefully, tracing his finger over it’s edge, before it popped and fizzled right from her hand, causing Orana to jump from her seat. Solas sighed, pulling her back towards the flickering light of the fire, dark stars circling them overhead. Haven was even colder in the evenings.

“Better to see the power emanating from the mark,” Solas had said, pulling her from the warmth of her room, intent on studying its effects further, with her awake and him waiting.

“It feels weird,” Orana whispered, watching his face carefully. He hummed in response, but she also saw his brows furrow in irritation.

“It is a wonderful thing, the power of the fade. I’m surprised to find it so concentrated,” he looked at her then, his eyes sharp and cold, as if he knew something she didn’t, which was probably true, “You should be lucky it didn’t kill you.”

She drew her knees to her chest, Solas’s touch moving up her arm to check for residual effects, feeling cold and distant. Like a piece of ice was touching her. It made her shiver unpleasantly, his eyes like the Tranquils’ wandering around the Kirkwall Chantry – surprisingly blank and neutral, for how angry he usually was at her.

“I don’t know, I guess I am. I wish I didn’t have it in the first place,” she admitted, into the dark, “Everyone calls me Herald, but I don’t really want to fight.”

His hands raised further up her arm, checking with his own magick the power that flowed through her, how far it had manifested itself into her body. As he reached her shoulder, she abruptly pulled away, pulling the sleeve of her tunic back down. When he looked into her eyes, he saw there deep, primal fear, and slight hesitation, hunching in on herself, as if he would do something unpleasant in return for her action.

“Please. I’m sorry just – please,” she closed her eyes, afraid.

And he wondered – from the Seeker and the dwarf, the Rivaini, the Commander, the servants and the training magi and stray Templars, she cowered from him, of all those around her.

“It’s alright. The magick of the mark stops in your arm, either way.”

“Oh, well, that’s good,” she relaxed, playing with a loose stitch at the end of her sleeve.

They sat in silence for a moment, and Orana savoured the sound of distant birds and the druffalo wandering the planes. Kirkwall never had much wildlife wandering around.

“You frighten easily,” Solas said, breaking the peace.

She shrugged, and stared into the flames of the fire. She wondered if Varric was still awake, if he would be in the tavern with a story ready on the tip of his tongue?

“I have not been to many of the human cities built in these lands, but they must treat the city elves terribly, in their Alienages, if they allow themselves to be so submissive,” he said, coolly, a whisper, almost speaking to himself.

She thought for a moment, before replying carefully, “Kirkwall wasn’t so bad, and there was no Alienage in Minrathous. Or, maybe there _was_ , but my Master never let me see it.”

Solas started at the word, and Orana was surprised he looked so surprised.

“ _Master_?”

“She never let me leave the estate – well, that’s not true, but it was only at night when the market wasn’t so busy, and I didn’t see any elves there either. So I couldn’t really say. The Alienage in Kirkwall was nice, though –“ And she continued chatting.

Solas sat, a moment, letting her words sink in, the deep, thick pounding of his heart ringing in his ears, the frown on his lips twisting into something vicious that made Orana stop, scooting back from him and his magicked hands as far as she dared.

“You were one of the slaves, then.”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, trying to will her hands to stop shaking, “You didn’t know about all of that?”

Solas rubbed his palms together, staring at the slow, meticulous movement, “I just never assumed.”

“…That’s okay.”

“I just – I never… Perhaps you could tell me more, tell me about your struggle. Not now, but…”

Orana didn’t answer, staring into the fire, and focused on the ribbiting frogs and huffing druffalo in the distance. Without the mark and the fighting and all of the people dying, it would be peaceful to live here.


	5. Chapter 5

The Hinterlands were vast, and Orana was so glad that they decided to camp on the peak of one of its many vast hills, just so she could look down across the valley and soak it all in. She had never seen anything like it – there was so much open space! It was so peaceful, and _green,_ the night even more so with all of the lovely stars shining down on their camp. Merrill had told her of the forests of Ferelden, but it was so different seeing it with her own eyes. She had a longing to sprint across the planes, hide between the trees and never come out.  

Varric watched as she tip-toed from her tent to the edge of camp, a smile on her lips, hugging a tree close and looking up at the night sky from her perch.

“Can’t sleep?”

She started, before realizing it was only him, and turned to him, a small, almost apologetic smile on her lips, “No. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

She was as quiet as a mouse. It almost made him chuckle.

He shrugged, ran his hand over Bianca, “I don’t sleep much anymore. Anything you’d like to talk about?”

“It’s hard to sleep in such an open place,” she admitted.

Everywhere she was, she was surrounded by people – her family and other elves all tucked into the cramped sleeping quarters of Master Hadriana’s mansion, or sleeping alongside Bodahn and Sandal at Hawke’s estate. There was always a warm body close by, soft snoring or whispered words shared in sleep that would lull her into the fade. Now, she felt empty when she slept.

She turned back to the night sky, the dusky valley below lit with a few lanterns that threw the swaying grass into sharp relief, its color leached until everything looked grey. It was beautiful, and really, she just wanted to look at it all a little longer. She took a deep breath of the cool, night air – so fresh!

“Do you think he ever made it to Ferelden?” She asked, her voice soft and wondrous.

Varric felt a small smile creep across his lips. He could already feel the words waiting to be written upon his fingertips – a forlorn passion separated by time and distance, perhaps?

“I’m not sure. He might have decided to skip the smell of dog and head straight to the Anderfels.”

She was silent a moment, “I miss him.”

He turned his eyes to the sky as well.

“I know it’s for the best but… I hope I’ll see him again.”

“Mousy, I’d be surprised if he would _ever_ let that happen,” Varric smirked, “And after _that,_ I’m sure you’ll have no problem sleeping.”

Orana blushed a deep red, and hugged the tree tighter. For a moment, imagined it was him.


	6. Chapter 6

“I-“ the words lodged themselves into Orana’s throat as fear took over, her whole body shaking as the mad Templar stalked closer and closer, his blade already shining with the blood of apostates. A strangled noise came from her throat instead.

Varric cursed under his breath, his heart thumping hard and heavy in his chest. He was too far away – an archer and rogue already on his tail, and he could see Cassandra was no better. He turned, shot blindly, hit his target in the leg.

“C’mon, Mousy!” He turned to make sure that she was at least still on her feet, could practically see her shaking, “ _C’mon_!” He hoped he sounded encouraging.

Her hands rubbed feverishly over the wooden pole that Varric insisted she carried with her. It did not seem so scary now, as it was back in Haven, with a Templar looming over her, poised to chop her head off.

“For good luck,” Varric said, and he had winked at her, making her blush. She was sure there was a joke in there somewhere.

Now, she could feel the burn of the too-smooth wood in her hand, like her hands were on fire, like she would burst into flames at any minute. The Templar was too close, the smell of death and sweat invading her senses, her limbs becoming a little bit numb.

“ _Orana_!” Cassandra’s booming voice called over the din of battle, its tone sharp and frigid, enough to make her frightened even when she was on the verge of death.

Orana, shaken from the sudden shout, leapt into motion, her arms moving in the smooth arc Cullen had trained with her, over and over and over again until her arms were aching and sore. She shut her eyes, letting her body move with the motion, her balance upset with the sudden sharp _crack_ that filled the air.

Her breathing was all that could be heard, and slowly, she opened her eyes once more. The battle was over, the forest surrounding them silent once more. Varric doubled over, his laughter filling the air as she regained her breath, looked down at the Templar at her feet, jaw bloody and broken.

Varric wiped his eyes, tears gathered in the corners, “What did I say, Mousy? Knew that stick would come in handy.”

Cassandra looked somewhere between proud and terrified, and Varric knocked her on the elbow, “Probably should thank you for that, as it were,” he patted Orana on the shoulder next, “I knew you had it in you. We’re on the up and up from here.”

Orana smiled, although it was queasy, “I never want to do that again.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I just-“ Orana cleared her throat, pulling on the uncomfortably thick sleeves of the ornate tunic Josephine forced her into. _Gold piping,_ she called it, but Orana was much more interested in the research Minaeve was conducting at the time to pay much attention.

“Well, it _is_ very grand.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes, “Worried that Josephine had lied to you about the grandeur of Val Royeaux?” She herself did not exactly sound impressed with the lavish ornaments decorating every corner of the large city, and Orana crouched in on herself, the people with their expressionless masks making her nervous.

“Not exactly, but, um,” Solas nodded in her direction, eyes steady on her, and she straightened her back slightly, “It seems such a waste, I suppose.”

Solas frowned, deep lines cutting between his brows, “The Orlesians have more gold than they know what to do with.”

The White Spire shone in the distance, almost blinding in the bright noonday sun, and eerily quiet as well. The red of the Templar’s banners was burned, until nothing was left except their singed, dark remains.

“I’m not sure about the dress,” Orana muttered, the words of Mother Giselle still ringing in her ears. The woman seemed kind, but Orana wasn’t so sure – she met many people, after all, that seemed kind but turned out not to be.

Her eyes flickered over to Solas.

“Are you ready to address the Templars?” Cassandra asked, her lips drawn in a thin line.

“I suppose. I would feel better if -,” Orana sighed, trying to bend over to get the thick boots off of her feet that Josephine _also,_ quite forcefully, shoved on her feet. The ties were tight and complicated, and Cassandra pulled her hand away from lifting her skirts any higher.

She looked like she would say something more, but simply shook her head and grunted. Varric hid a chuckle behind a soft cough.

“Yes, I think I can do this,” she whispered mostly to herself. Solas, Cassandra, and even Varric in his dressed up finery surrounded her, and she had the knife strapped to her thigh that Cullen insisted she wear at all times, in case anything went sour.

Orana’s eyes flickered to the stores surrounding the square, each one more ostentatious than the next, until she spotted a small, unimposing one that hid behind the rest. She gasped, hiking her skirts until she was by Varric’s side, and leaned down towards his ear.

“Varric,” she said, her voice bubbling over with poorly hidden excitement, “Can we stop there before we go back to Haven?”

Varric looked to where she was pointing, and felt a smile tugging at his cheeks, “’Course we can.”

Orana’s smile lit up her face, and Varric couldn’t quite remember the last time he saw her smile so brightly. Or at all. Was it before the Chantry went to shit? Or maybe it was right before he was dragged off by Cassandra to tell the story of Hawke. Either way, it was definitely before the _next_ explosion, the one at the Temple. Facing the Templars did not seem so horrible, now.


	8. Chapter 8

Cullen rubbed his eyes, the low dim of the burning candles making his eyes sore, a deep dry aching forming behind his lids. A deep sigh puffed from his chest, and he observed Josephine a moment.

“Is paperwork always so…” he began, uncertain if his words would offend the methodical diplomat.

Instead, Josephine snorted, a small and delicate sound even from her, “Tedious? Obnoxious?”

“ _Long?”_

A small sort of laugh that could have well been a breath escaped her lips, and Cullen allowed himself a weary chuckle, “I assumed that being Knight-Commander would have prepared you for such a work load.” It was a statement, nothing more or less.

There was a moment of easy silence between the two as the scratch of Josephine’s quill filled the stale night air.

“She is something else, though, isn’t she?”

At that, Josephine finally put her work to the side, eyes flicking to Cullen at the opposite side of the large war table.

“What do you mean?”

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, “You know, ah, um,” he coughed, “The Herald. She isn’t exactly what was… expected?” Josephine nodded her head, but said no more.

“She isn’t a very good fighter,” he continued.

“That is true.”

“Or a good diplomat.”

“Yes,” Josephine almost smiled, but sleep weighed heavy on her mind, the conversation lulling her.

“Or, in fact, very religious for being the Herald of Andraste.”

“Perhaps more curious than anything else,” her eyes flickered back to the half-finished letter to a minor Comte that needed to be sent by the break of dawn.

“But there’s just something about her, isn’t there? The way she talks to people, makes ridiculous jokes, does not give a rat’s arse about… much of anything, really,” Cullen sighed, deep in his bones, “The people love her.”

Josephine, through the shadows and dim light surrounding them, swore she could see a dusting of pink covering the Commander’s cheeks, before he turned abruptly back to the requisition report he was reading previously.

Josephine smiled, sly but genuine, “Yes, I have to agree with you, Commander.”


	9. Chapter 9

Orana stared at the book in her hand, ran her palm over the etched cover and down the spine, feeling its indentation skim the most sensitive part of her wrist. There were three more stacked near her feet as she sat cross legged before the burning hearth of her room.

The paper was comforting beneath her hands, and reminded her of home. Not of the home she had in Tevinter, with her father’s food roasting on the fire, the smell filling her nose and making her cheeks pink with delight. This was a different kind of home, a home travelling through Fereldan to the Anderfels, maybe already in Southern Nevarra. She wasn’t quite sure, Varric vague and short in his updates on Fenris’s whereabouts.

Maybe he was worried that she would run off after him, leaving the safety that Fenris had so long wished for her, leaving the Inquisition with no way to close the rifts to the fade that filled her dreams with nightmares and demons.

 _Once upon a time,_ the book began, and maybe it was better this way, because she might have done just that.

_Hawke’s manse was filled to the brim with guests, their host ostentatious even after being almost sliced in half by a behemoth of a Qunari. Dinner was served, Bohdan and Sandal and Orana running and sweating and cooking and entertaining, until everyone’s bellies were full and their heads fuzzy with wine._

_“Cheers, to another day in the life!” Varric toasted, Hawke cheering and downing the rest of his drink, Orana running the rest of the dishes to the kitchen for Sandal to wash._

_She sighed, wiping her brow, nibbling on leftover bread before slipping her way to the library, the crowd and laughter and cheering making her feel claustrophobic. The library was cool, quiet, and she ran her fingers over the spines of Hawke’s many books._

_She wished she knew what they said, the stories that filled the thick pages, the spines hinting to her the vast worlds inside._

_“Can you read?” She jumped at the sudden voice, turning and backing up against the shelf, shrinking into herself._

_It was Fenris, Hawke’s companion, the elf that helped to save her. He raised his arms up, as if to show her that he was no threat, looking suddenly abashed._

_“Sorry, I-“ he cleared his throat, straightening up, “Forgive me for the sudden question. It’s just…”_

_Orana looked down, “No, I can’t,” she paused, “I wish I could, but Papa couldn’t read either, so there was no one to teach me.”_

_“Me either,” she looked up, and Fenris was looking at her intently, “I’ve only begun learning, myself,” he smiled slightly, and she found the sight beautiful, “It is tough, but it is worth it.”_

_She nodded, imagining the wonderful stories he could read, the worlds and people he could become, escape to. They stared at each other a moment, both uncertain with themselves._

_“I-“ he began, stopped, “I am still not very learned myself, but I could teach you what I know.”_

_She could see he was nervous, learned the signs from the other slaves to know when Hadriana was not in a good mood. She looked up at him, heart beating faster than it had before._

_“Really?”_

_Again, that small smile, “I would be honored.”_

_All she could do was nod her head in response, and so he reached near her head, where she was still pressed against the shelve, and picked a thick old tome that looked ancient._

_They sat beside each other, crossed legged, the library’s hearth warming their backs, knees almost touching. Fenris opened the book, and she leaned forward to capture the words off the page, his soft voice._

_“This is one of my favorites,” he began, his voice husky and quiet, like he was sharing with her his greatest secret. It made her blush._

_And so, he began, “Once upon a time…”_


	10. Chapter 10

The halls of the Orlesian mansion were bone-chilling, making Orana shiver harder than Haven’s quick-approaching winter ever could. The Elven servants stared at her as she passed by, in her finery, guided by Madame de Fer to some private corner. She thinks she knows how Fenris feels, whenever he sees an elf enslaved by their mage overlords.

She wondered how different Orlais was to Tevinter.

Vivienne turned quickly on her heel, and Orana stopped short, almost running into her. Vivienne’s eyes roamed over her, as if waiting to pounce, looking for a weakness behind the shaking, elven girl stood before her.

“My dear,” she started, and Orana stared at the staff on her back. No matter how beautiful or intricate it looked, no matter how many gems were encrusted along its length or runes entombed in its head, Orana felt her toes curl into the bottoms of her uncomfortable boots.

“What have you gotten yourself into?” Vivienne tsked, amused, her lips curling into a predatory smile.

Orana shrugged. She was certain Leliana would be incredibly proud of her grace.

\---

“An elf,” Sera sighed, “Always gotta be an elf, innit? Can never leave well enough alone, even when you mean the best,” blood covered her shift, dead bodies surrounding her sans breaches.

Orana took a deep breath, calming her beating heart from the battle, walls slicked with the evidence of the fight. Varric took her hand in his, and she found her voice once again, “I’ll never get used to it,” she said, quietly, and he nodded, sombre.

Sera snorted, “Y’ don’t even like fighting? What kinda Herald are you even? Can’t help people if you won’t kill the bad ones.”

Orana stared at the other elf, her arms filled with pants, face a contorted twist of amusement and malice.

“Help?”

Varric smiled, a happy little grin, “On it.”

\---

The Qunari stood before her, although she could only see up to his chin before his face disappeared. His chest was toned, large, and she was certain that her face must have been a deep, deep red.

“You’re from Kirkwall, right?” He asked, voice deep and mysterious.

She swallowed, “How did you know?”

He shrugged, “I’m a spy for the Qun – Ben Hassrath.”

“Oh.”

“I’m just surprised you aren’t… you know… freaked out or anything. With the whole uprising there.”

She shrugged, certain it looked awkward, “I wasn’t there. I’ve never actually… _seen_ a Qunari.”

He raised his eyebrow, intrigued, “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m the Iron Bull.”

He gave her his hand to shake, and hers was miniscule in his, crushed by the muscles that seemed to encase the entire man.

The agreement set, payment exchanged, and Orana began the trek back to their camp, hoping the falling rain would cover the blush on her cheeks.

“Are you alright, Orana?” Cassandra asked, expression skeptical as always.

“Yes, yes, of course, I’m fine,” although the question made her blush return full-force.

“Don’t tell me you don’t see it, eh? The Qunari, the muscle, she’s all flustered, can’t find her words, even,” Sera blurted, smirking at Orana’s embarrassment.

Cassandra’s brows furrowed together, “Is this true? Are you not spoken for, Orana?”

Varric’s hearty chuckle could be heard all the way down to Iron Bull’s camp on the beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to introduce everyone rather quickly so that they can have more interactions in the story between each other and so on and so forth :) hope this was enough of an intro for each, but we know how they go so


	11. Chapter 11

Varric closed the door behind him, the hinges creaking, a deep and heavy sigh escaping him.

The nightmares were getting worse, waking her in the middle of the night, screaming uncontrollably.

He rubbed his thumb against his tired eyes, and loud steps approach him from behind, small stones creaking beneath the stranger’s steps. He turned wearily, almost surprised to see the Seeker there, but not quite.

“How is she?” her sharp voice asked, not as sharp in the twilight surrounding Haven.

“Sounds like you almost care, Seeker,” Varric sighed, rubbing his neck. He turned to face her, just in time to see her flinch at his words.

“Uncalled for,” he apologized, and she nodded in agreement, “She can’t sleep. It’s hard on her.”

“Is it the rifts?”

“Seems like every time she closes one, she gains another nightmare for it.”

Cassandra shifted her feet uncomfortably, “And demons?”

“Nothing to worry about there,” Varric waved his hand, although his signature smirk was missing, “Took care of that back in Kirkwall,” Orana wasn’t a mage, but Fenris was insistent she be prepared to fend off any demons that may have tried to use her, especially when Danarius was still in the picture.

“I see,” Cassandra nodded, her eyes intent on Varric, his sagging shoulders. They stood in silence for a moment, before a profound sense of awkwardness caught Varric off his guard.

“Well, best to call it a night,” he moved to shift past the Seeker, but her timid voice caught him by surprise.

“It sounds like you could use a drink.”

“Is that an invitation, Seeker?”

“It might be.”

Varric smiled, his teeth razor-sharp with the slowly descending shadows, “It sounds like you almost care.”


	12. Chapter 12

Blackwall’s mouth twitched at the sight of the Chantry. He was never a religious man and doubted the Maker would take him in as one of his children now. He took his first step toward it, to the supposed diplomat who would officially welcome him into the newly formed Inquisition.

The girl – because she was not much more than a girl, really – was strange. But the cause was good.

Was this a form of salvation, perhaps? Bah, he was past that already - but, he was promised a warm bed and warm food, and the chance to help fight demons. Help keep people safe.

The Chantry was cold, its stone walls reverberating the quiet prayers of lay sisters hiding from the snowy world outside. It made him feel dizzy. The diplomat’s door on the left, or so the elf-girl – Herald, that was - had chattered to him through her teeth, fighting off the cold no doubt seeping through her exposed toes.

He knocked, quietly at first, and when no response came a little louder.

“Yes, _yes,_ I’m coming, just a moment!” An irritated accent responded, muffled through the thick wooden door.

A moment later it opened, and he greeted to narrowed eyes and a piece of hair caught in her eyelashes. Warm skin, dark hair – she flicked the loose strand back into her complicated updo. There was a pile of neat but scattered papers sitting on a desk behind her, and she tilted her head until his gaze was upon her once more.

“May I help you?” She inquired, her voice kept together with the grace of someone irritated yet polite.

He felt his tongue tied in his throat, and his voice gravelly when he replied dumbly, “Blackwall.”

“Ah yes, the Grey Warden. Right this way.”

He followed, willingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for such a long delay. I'm just starting to get out of a bad writer's block, and only now do I seem to have more time to write. Hopefully I will update again soon as I really enjoy this story! Thanks for sticking around!
> 
> EDIT: Sorry about the weird tenses - it should be fixed now!


	13. Chapter 13

Orana’s head swam with the voices of her advisors and council – Vivienne, Cullen, Cassandra, Sera the loudest of all, each with their own opinion and bribe as to why their decision would be the best. She felt dizzy, the small room in the Chantry too full with Bull’s large form taking up so much space, Blackwall’s calculating gaze and crossed arms making him look imposing from across her.

Who would she choose? Because, according to Leliana, she _must c_ hoose if she wanted to seal the breach, stop the invasion of demons across the world, like she had seen in the Hinterlands – devouring, destroying, their maws wide and hungry for more.

Her heart pumped against the thin skin of her chest, but she took a deep breath, let it out slowly like Fenris had shown her once upon a time.

_It keeps me calm, when the rage becomes too much. Perhaps it will help you, too._

And it did help, now, when Kirkwall was burning to the ground, when the sky was falling apart... It helped.

“You alright, Boss?” Bull whispered to her, bending down so far to reach her ear it was almost comical, if the fate of mages and Templars weren’t currently in the balance.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

His one eye, clear and sharp as ever, stared back at her. The others continued yelling in the background, Varric interrupting every so often to poke at the Seeker or remind everyone w _e’re civilized here, aren’t we?_

“You sure? Wouldn’t take much to shut all these people up.”

She shrugged, “They can say what they want, if it helps them so much.”

He thought a moment, and then, “I see your point?”

“Alright, _alright_ ,” Cassandra finally boomed, her hand slamming down against the thick tome of the Inquisition of old, making the wooden table rattle, “That is enough arguing. We obviously cannot come to a decision ourselves. Orana, you have been quiet, what do you say about this?”

She knew that, after all the commotion, they would still defer to her, the Herald. Vivienne had warned her so. Nonetheless, it still startled her when Cassandra called her name, and she steadied herself before speaking, the green of her mark flickering unsteadily.

“The Templars don’t want to negotiate with us,” she started, hesitantly. Although reluctant, Cullen nodded in agreement, “And the mages are stranded in Redcliffe.” Solas raised a pointed eyebrow at her wording.

Orana looked down at her hands, new fighting callouses forming, overlaying the old ones from cooking and cleaning. When she thought of mages, all she could remember was the pain of not doing her chores properly, or the punishment of being late to bed.

But there was also Merrill, and Hawke dabbled in healing magick here and there.

“Runs in the family,” he would say with a smirk, letting a little spark of electricity burst from his finger, the smell of alcohol on his lips.

She gripped her hands into fists, looked at those assembled around her, and said, rather meekly, “It wouldn’t hurt to at least visit Redcliffe, right?”

The room – that is, mostly Sera and Cullen – erupted into noise once more. Although surprised, and wary, Bull gave her a pat on the back, before turning his attention to the colorful profanities Sera was using.

“Fuckin’ bollocks, mages’ are more troubled than a elf with dirty shoes!”

“So, mages, huh Mousy?” She turned to Varric, smiling at her with a gleam in his eye, “Would it be too fatherly to say I’m proud? Either way, this is going into my new book. Thanks for making it a killer already.”

Cassandra wasted no time preparing an entourage to leave for Redcliffe – _the sooner we mingle, the sooner we make a decision –_ and as Orana was outfitted for her journey, she thought of Fenris, and hoped that he too would be proud.


	14. Chapter 14

Varric sighed, put the quill back onto his makeshift desk. For once, the words were not coming to him easily. He wasn’t sure how to say _Hey Fenris, Orana is fine. She has a weird mark on her hand that connects her to the Fade and she’s going to help out the interned mages, hope all is well_ without the elf packing off to possibly hurt and maim him.

He knew it would be better to leave well enough alone. But, then again, he was Varric Tethras.

Haven was in a ruckus – refugees, defected Templars, and jail-break mages alike running to and fro for the Herald’s march to Redcliffe. Although she had not said anything, when their eyes met after the council meeting, Varric knew that Cassandra was certain Orana was not going to end up at the Templars. She was preparing, not only for negotiations, but the closing of the Breach.

Varric breathed deep, the frost of the air nipping at his lungs, and from the corner of his eye he saw Blackwall and Josephine, their eyes serious as they sped down from the Chantry to the training yard. Bull was gathering his Chargers, instructions coming easily from his mouth, soft enough that it sounded as if they were planning on which tavern to stop at for lunch.

“My dear Varric,” he heard behind him, and turned to see Madame Vivienne standing behind him. When he didn’t offer her a chair, none other available than the rock he was sitting on, she brushed her robes irritably.

“What may I do for you, Iron Lady?”

One of her eyebrows raised, but there was a smirk on her mouth, “I figure I should get right to the point, dear. Orana – I am keen to know what her plans with the mages are.”

Varric smiled, a tired thing, “Funny thing is, my name isn’t Orana.”

“But you a _re_ her closest confidant, no?”

“If you mean in the sense that I know the intimate details of her personal life, then yes. But do I live inside her brain? Unfortunately, not. Although that would be rather interesting.” He rubbed his chin in mock thought.

“Madame De Fer!” Josephine’s distant voice called, and Vivienne turned in its direction, a slight frown the only indication of her frustration.

“What a pity,” her voice was colder than a moment before, “I only hope she knows what she is doing. Us mages need structure, after all.”

Varric sighed, saw Cassandra moving past him, off to another task. Her brow was furrowed in concern when she saw him, and he only nodded in response.

Turning back to the letter, he began:

_Fenris,_


	15. Chapter 15

_“Is… this alright?” He asks, swallowing heavily._

_He runs his hand up her thigh, and her breath hitches in her throat. As he inches closer and closer to the seam between her legs, his calloused fingers drifts over he a r thigh, a place she has rarely touched before, and she gasps when it tickles._

_He pulls away, and she puts her arms around his neck to keep him close, his body over hers, caging her in a way that makes her heart pump heavily in her chest._

_“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, his marks flaring in a way that shows his nervousness, in a way that only she would know, “I would not want to… force anything onto you.”_

_He has told her everything – about his past, what he can remember of it, how Hadriana and Danarius had treated him – what they made him do. She understood, understands the pain that mages still bring him, the burning of his marks when he remembers – she has some as well, welts on her back left by her mistress._

_She knows the stories of what he was forced to do – never by his choice, never his fault._

_“Fenris,” she says, eyes on his own, “I’m honored you chose me.”_

_Because before this, neither had much of a choice of anything. And, Orana thinks, that makes it all the more special for her, for someone who was not allowed anything besides the comfort of her father's cooking and a stone bed to lie on._

_He watches her a moment, and she feels him relax, his markings dying down as he presses her into the sheets beneath them both again, “So this is fine?”_

_“More than fine,” she smiles, and he returns it, touching her again, allowing them to find some solace in Kirkwall, away from blood mages and Qunari preparing to attack, and those that call them knife-ears._


End file.
